Beneath the moon's soft silver gleam,

An ancient pinewood tells a dream.

Of whispered tales through rustling boughs,

Where time itself seems to endow.

A traveler paused in still repose,

To hear what secrets nature shows.

The branches swayed with murmured grace,

Of mountains old and seasons' pace.

One need not seek for distant lore,

When peace awaits at earth's own door.

The wind-carved words in needled green,

Speak truths that in our hearts convene.